Doubt
by FatesMistake
Summary: Snape is having the 7th Years brew Amortentia, and singles Harry out when he has a violent reaction to what he smells. Harry, so very secretly, doesn't completely mind. SSHP, means Slash. Rated T for Teen Titans.


Harry added his last ingredient to the cauldron and began to stir. He glanced at Hermione beside him, and he sighed with relief to see her potion was turning the same fluorescent pink as his as she stirred her own cauldron. They were Seventh Years now, and Harry still didn't understand Snape's reasons for letting him and a few others into his class. Granted, thanks to that sorry prick who'd nearly murdered Dumbledore, the idol he'd worshipped in the margins of his Sixth Year Potions text, his grades from the previous year were enough to qualify him. The really weird thing was that Snape, Malfoy, and the other Slytherins, weren't acting like their usual selves. Outside they were the biggest assholes to grace the halls of Hogwarts, same as always, but within the Potions classroom they were all suddenly just normal students. No one was set apart; Malfoy had offered to share his notes with Dean, and Snape stopped to assist everyone as if… well, as if everyone in the room were Slytherins. Even the Hufflepuffs (there weren't enough qualified Seventh Years to warrant the usual separation) were treated as equals, something terribly odd for Slytherins. Gryffindors were a problem to Slytherins, but Hufflepuffs were usually considered _less_ than everyone else. Even most Ravenclaws held them in contempt, but not within Snape's classroom; in Seventh Year Potions everyone was equal, no matter class, blood status, or House.

Harry set down his stirrer as Snape swept past their table towards the front of the room. Snape turned, hands clasped behind his back, and his black eyes moved over the room with utter stoicism. Harry straightened unconsciously as onyx met emerald. Things were so different now…

"You should all be finished, or nearly finished with your potions," Snape said softly, his voice washing over the room. "Assuming those of you finished have done right, you should begin to smell the potion in the next few moments. Amortentia does not itself have a scent, and what you smell will be unique to you. Some of you may know to whom your potion is calling out for, some of you may suspect, and some may not recognize the particular scents the potion chooses. The potion affects the chemicals in your brain, creating a scent you associate with someone you feel a strong attachment to. It pains me to say it, but not even _I_ know why it chooses those scents, or how the potion differentiates family and friend from lover, or potential lover. When you identify the scents, and no, I don't care _what_ you smell or why, simply raise your hand."

Harry glanced around the room and smirked as his classmates all bent eagerly over their potions, even the Slytherins. Typical teenage desire; the chance to "know" who your true love was, if it was the person you were dating, or your crush. But the text was clear, and Snape had said as much as well: the potion just used your emotions and attraction to give you the most appealing scent. One thing the book said that Snape hadn't was the fact that, for some unknown reason, the potion was never wrong. Harry saw a lot of disappointed and confused faces as he passed his eyes over the room a second time. It made him want to laugh. Twenty-odd kids, and maybe a full third hadn't gotten the result they wanted. Some had probably botched the potion, but the others simply hadn't gotten the result they had been looking for. Harry turned back to his potion with a grin. That's what they got for going into it with expectations. He had none. He and Ginny had split amicably after Voldemort's death in the summer, citing too many differences, and he hadn't had romantic feelings for anyone since. No expectations, he was just curious who his potion would lead him to, if anyone.

The Wizarding Savior glanced at his friend, who was frowning over her potion. He couldn't stop a laugh as he leaned towards her. "What's up?"

Hermione looked up with disappointment and confusion. "It's- it's not Ron. It's _Victor_."

Harry frowned now as well. "You read the research, 'Mione. It's not wrong."

"I know, Harry… but how am I going to tell him? _Either_ of them? Victor just got engaged, and Ron thinks we're going to be together forever."

Harry shrugged, chuckling. "Send them each a vial of this stuff?"

Hermione slapped his chest. "It's not funny!" She whispered harshly. "What about you?"

Harry looked at his potion. "Haven't tried yet." He leaned over his cauldron and drew a deep breath. He frowned as the smell assaulted him. Ink, musty old books… and potions ingredients. He frowned.

"What?" Hermione whispered beside him.

Harry shook his head. "I think I made it wrong."

"Impossible, it looks just like mine," Hermione scoffed. She leaned across him, holding her hair back as she sniffed over his potion. "Nope, smells like mine. Like Victor."

Harry frowned as he leaned over his cauldron a second time. It didn't make sense. Ink, books, and potions ingredients, same as before, but who could that… He glanced up to the front of the room, where Snape was standing with what might have been a small smile on a less imposing face. He was probably being assaulted with the smell of everyone's cauldron, and even Harry could admit, as he watched, that maybe Snape had his own hopes for love. Harry looked down at his cauldron again, staring in confusion at the slowly swirling pink contents. Who…?

"No!" Harry murmured in a guttural voice. He swallowed thickly, taking a trembling step back from the table.

"Is there a problem here?"

Harry's eyes shifted from his cauldron to the onyx eyes above it. He shook his head. "N-No, I just think I made it wrong, is all."

Snape smirked and leaned over the cauldron. His large nose sniffed delicately, and he leaned back, his smirk widening. "I think not, Mister Potter."

He stepped around the table, directly into Harry's personal space. The Gryffindor tried to step back, but found himself pressed against Malfoy's table behind him. He looked away, but firm fingers on his chin lifted his gaze back to Snape's. The class had fallen deathly still and silent.

"What do you smell, Potter?"

Harry scowled and jerked his chin free, looking away. "Nothing," He spat angrily. "I don't smell a damn thing."

Snape scoffed lightly, almost a laugh, and stepped back around the desk. "There's been a sudden change in assignment." Harry stepped back to his cauldron and scowled down at the offending potion. "You will all now write a mere six inches on what you smell and why. That means who, how the scent relates to them, and why you think the potion chose that person."

There were groans around the room, particularly from Hermione at Harry's side. The Wizarding Savior's scowl deepened as he felt his heart begin to race in his chest. He couldn't do that. No way could he write an essay about what he smelled. _No_ one could ever know, especially Snape. There was no way…

"No." He said firmly, looking up into Snape's smirking gaze. There were gasps from his classmates.

Snape continued to smirk as he crossed his arms over his chest. "If you refuse the assignment, I will have no choice but to give you detention."

Harry crossed his own arms over his chest. "Fine," He spat back. "Just tell me when, because I can't give you an answer I don't have."

Snape scoffed another laugh and moved around his own desk, bending over it to begin penning what Harry could only assume was his disciplinary note for McGonagall.

"Saturday evening, Potter," Snape said, dipping his quill and unrolling a blank scroll of parchment. " _Every_ Saturday evening until I receive the paper." He looked up, that smug smirk still on his face. "Do you understand?"

Harry tightened his crossed arms defensively. "Perfectly, _sir._ "

Snape straightened just as the magical bell announcing the end of class echoed down the corridor outside the classroom. He held out the scroll, and Harry moved from his place to take it. Snape tightened his hold momentarily, and Harry looked up in surprise and confusion as the class began filing out behind him.

"No, you don't," Snape said. He released the scroll and Harry stepped back, off the platform that held Snape's desk. "But you will."

Harry felt an unknowable shiver race up his spine. He turned and grabbed his bag and book from beside his and Hermione's bench. He caught up to his friends, who were waiting for him in the corridor. He led their retreat from the dungeons, purposely walking fast enough to keep ahead of his friends.

"What the hell was that?" Dean asked, grabbing Harry's shoulder.

Harry jerked free. "Nothing."

"Well, that's a lie. What did you smell?" Hermione demanded.

"Look-!" Harry rounded on his friends and forced himself to calm down at the look of worry on their faces. "I didn't smell anything, like I said," He told them softly. "So just let it go."

Harry turned back to leaving the dungeons as quickly as possible. He wanted desperately for the day to end. How could he have allowed this to happen. If he'd just _lied_ … But damn his pride. And he couldn't go back now. He was too involved, and Snape would smell a lie now, after his stupid, brainless performance in the classroom. He could claim it was someone close, like Ron or Ginny, or someone he hated, but what was the point in giving that bastard the satisfaction? It was an unfair assignment. What did it matter what he smelled? Snape had no right to ask, even if it _had_ been someone else.

 _-Break-_

The noise in the Great Hall was its' usual deafening roar, but Harry heard none of it. In the hours since Potions, Ron, Ginny, and his other dormmates had been told about what had happened in Snape's class, and most of the rest of the school had as well. Harry couldn't bear the whispers. Did everything about his life belong to the general public? Most people, it wouldn't have mattered. Just another kid refusing to do the work for one reason or another. But he was Harry Potter, and for some stupid, insane reason, that meant he had to have some great secret that everyone thought they had a right to. It wasn't fair. And the Potions Master's interest was terrifying enough, without throwing everyone else into the mix. Frankly, Harry didn't care if anyone else knew. There had been enough disappointment from his classmates that they'd understand, or accept that the potion was just being odd. That man, though… Harry would never be able to look him in the eye again. They'd made such odd, uneven strides towards changing things, he couldn't let this ruin everything. If the man ever found out, forgetting everyone else, Harry couldn't bear what it would do to them. Snape would think he was having him on, and Harry… well, he might never recover from the damage.

 _Snape_. Why him? Harry glanced up at the Head Table, as he'd done every few minutes since coming down to dinner. His eyes trailed over Snape, who was reading in ignorant bliss as he ate, and then over to Dumbledore. It had all started with him, everything. Harry didn't doubt for a second that the last six years of his life had been scripted by the all-time do-gooder everyone thought Albus Dumbledore was. It would have been impossible for Dumbledore not to have at least _known_ what had been happening to him, known and done nothing. Last year had just been the tipping point.

Everything had come to a head on top of the Astronomy Tower, after Dumbledore had nearly gotten them both killed in that damned cave. Malfoy had had them trapped, but Dumbledore had known all along he'd never do it. Then Snape came along with his white-masked, blood-supremacist friends. Harry could hardly think what Dumbledore had nearly forced the Potions Master to do. But Harry had stopped him. Dumbledore hadn't been strong enough to cast the body bind. It had worn off just as Snape raised his wand. Harry had disarmed him in an instant, and the backlash from Snape's half-cast spell had knocked everyone save Malfoy and him down the steps of the Tower. Two had broken their necks, the others left unconscious and bleeding. But Harry hadn't discovered that until later. He'd run to Dumbledore, who'd collapsed. He had found a pulse just as Malfoy fainted and Snape had collapsed to his hands and knees. Harry had checked them both, but Snape had jerked away the second Harry's hand had touched his shoulder.

That was when Snape had started mumbling. He'd been praying. Praising God for what he'd almost done, and stopping it before it could happen. Harry had reached for him again, and Snape's head had snapped up, unshed tears clinging to his lashes.

" _Thank you, Potter."_

Harry had managed a smile, the first he could ever recall giving the sadistic prick. "It's not over yet, Snape." He'd said.

Snape had nodded and stood. They'd gone down to find the other Death Eaters, some rousing from their unconsciousness, wands raised. Harry had raised his own wand, but Snape had touched his wrist.

"Not my spells," He'd said. "They know how to defend against them."

Harry had gaped. "You're-!"

"Yes," Snape had murmured. Without even looking, he'd cast a spell at the Death Eaters, conjuring a net that pinned them to the floor with posts that pierced the stone. " _I_ am the Half-Blood Prince. Now is not the time for that, however."

Harry had accepted Snape's words. It seemed like he'd always known that, somewhere deep down. The problem was, they'd never found a time for that conversation, if there were one to be had. After the end of his Sixth Year, he and his friends had returned to Grimmauld, where the true battle began. It had taken less than a month for the Order to find and destroy the Horcruxes. Even the one Harry had unknowingly carried. Dumbledore had offered to be the one to kill him the Muggle way, with Order members standing by to bring him back. Harry had refused, saying only one man could have that honor. Snape had shown up with an alternative to being the one to take the life of the Boy Who Lived. He'd developed a potion from Basilisk venom, and, while Harry had been sick for days afterward, the Horcrux had been destroyed.

With six of his Horcruxes gone, Voldemort had wiggled out of the woodwork. And he hadn't been strong enough to withstand his young nemesis when Hermione had lobbed off Nagini's head and Harry had cast the Killing Curse for the first and last time, all in the large square in Diagon Alley, outside Gringotts. Snape had been there, offering silent support, and had nearly lost his life in the ensuing chaos. In the end, Harry had repaid the life debt he'd owed since First Year when he'd stopped Dolotrov from killing his Half-Blood Prince. It had taken a solid tackle to the midriff, and Harry broke a rib doing it, but it had been enough to save Snape's life.

Everything since then had gone pear-shaped. Snape spent the rest of the summer locked away with the Golden Trio, and the remaining Marauder, and they'd never fought. They'd all been under house arrest until the last of the Death Eaters were caught and sentenced, but they _hadn't fought_. Snape had been respectful, of everyone, and had even given Harry a belated gift for his 17th birthday; the book he'd lost in the Room of Requirement. Since then, Snape hadn't caused any trouble. And neither had Harry… until today.

"Harry-"

"I'm not talking about it," Harry said, cutting off his ex-girlfriend.

"But, Harry-!"

"I said 'no'!" Harry shouted, standing.

His friends looked at him in shock, but he didn't care. He turned and left the Great Hall. At the door, he looked back. Half the Hall was staring after him, including the majority of the Head Table. He caught those smirking onyx eyes studying him, and fled. He couldn't do this, now or ever. What the hell was he _supposed_ to do? There was no way anyone would understand. He couldn't even entirely understand, himself. Something had broken between him and the Potions Master on top of the Astronomy Tower, that was true. An invisible wall, built by years of mutual loathing borne of what Harry was sure now mostly amounted to serious misunderstanding. Harry, because of his general mistrust of adults, had found it easy to hate a man he was despised by. Snape had found it easy to despise him merely for the unfortunate luck of looking like his father's twin. But neither of them had bothered to look closer. Harry had never stopped to wonder why Snape seemed convinced he was spoiled and arrogant, and Snape had never bothered to wonder if he really was. They'd both been… so wrong. This summer proved that, when they'd managed real conversation. Someone (though none had stepped forward) had filled the Potions Master in on Harry's home life while Harry lie sick in bed, recovering from the destruction of his Horcrux. When Harry had emerged from his room, something more had broken between them. He'd come downstairs in the wee hours of the morning, hungry for the first time in days, and had found Snape in the kitchen, nursing a coffee…

 _-Summer-_

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked suspiciously.

Snape didn't look up from his mug. "I, like you, have been put on house arrest until my… colleagues… have been caught and hanged, so to speak, and the Dark Lord meets his well-deserved end, seeing as he no doubt knows it was I who destroyed your Horcrux."

Harry finished his descent into the kitchen. "Oh. I… I suppose I should thank you…" He said nervously. "I must admit, after all this time, I finally value my life. I'm grateful you found a way to rid me of Voldemort's filth without actually killing me."

Snape grunted and raised his mug to his lips. "No more visions?"

"Not a one," Harry admitted. He moved towards the cupboard that passed for a refrigerator. He began digging around, and finally emerged with some chicken and fresh herbs. He was never more grateful that Remus kept the kitchen well-stocked, in spite of the werewolf's poor abilities when it came to edible food. Harry glanced at the Potions Master over his shoulder as he moved to a counter. "Would… would you like something to eat?"

Snape gave a half-hearted shrug that Harry almost missed. "I would not be adverse. The wolf… it seems his years abroad have not taught him to cook. As I am insufficient to the task myself, I… I wouldn't mind a meal I didn't have to choke down."

Harry smirked as he began chopping the herbs expertly. "How do you know my cooking is any better than yours or Remus'?"

Snape gave a harsh sigh, and Harry resisted the urge to turn around when there was no answer forthcoming. Just as he was sure the silence would suffocate him, Snape spoke.

"I do not imagine your relatives would have been less expectant, considering their size and brutality, than my father was of my mother, when it came to their meals."

Harry stiffened. "What do you mean? My relatives-"

"I…" Snape paused. "I have been made aware of the circumstances of your home life, and of how little it differed from my own."

Harry's back was ramrod straight as he forced a scoff. "I-I'm not- My relatives have never… I'm a spoiled, arrogant brat, remember? I've been living the high life," He lied.

"Potter."

Harry closed his eyes against a wave of nausea. He didn't know if it was a remnant of his recent sickness, but he somehow doubted it. There were only a select few people who knew the full extent of how he'd grown up; about Petunia's beatings with a frying pan, the much more frequent slaps, chokes, and punches his uncle had delivered since he was old enough to walk, the constant cruelty of his cousin that had made him so quick on his feet, and, of course, the near-unbroken starvation. Just a few, and they were all cooped up in Grimmauld. Sighing with resignation, Harry turned, eyes to his bare toes, and leaned against the counter, drumming his fingers along the edge.

"Who told you?"

Snape paused before he spoke. "No one person is to blame," He said at last. "They have each said their share. If you would lay blame with anyone, then I suggest it start here. My… new knowledge… was borne first of a slip of the tongue in response to my own callous ignorance. I must extend my sincerest apologies. I know it means very little, after so long, but-"

"Don't say that," Harry interrupted softly. He looked up through his fringe to see Snape was frowning at him. "It's never too late to start again, is it?" Harry asked. "I can't believe that there is never room for an apology… or forgiveness."

Snape's mouth opened and closed the slightest bit. "Forgiveness, Potter?"

Harry sighed and turned back to preparing their food. "Is it so hard to believe? We have both done our share of damage to one another. Perhaps… we could both set it aside? Begin anew?"

"I… I do not know if that is possible," Snape said softly.

Harry nodded with yet another sigh. Neither of them said anything further as he finished preparing the breasts and put them in a pan to sear. He worked silently, almost so involved in the calming process that he could forget the room's other occupant. Almost. Was it really too late? Had they settled so far into their roles that they couldn't forgive and forget? Or was that Snape's way of telling him that his unlucky resemblance to his father would forever stand between them? Harry had no hope of befriending the man. He doubted they had very much in common. But it hurt to think that bridges burned could not be rebuilt. That wasn't the world he wanted to live in.

As Harry cooked, adding fresh asparagus and mushrooms to the pan with the seared chicken, he hardly noticed when Snape stood and began moving around the kitchen, occasionally into Harry's periphery. He was setting the table for two. Harry was almost glad the man hadn't simply left in the deafening silence. At the same time, he almost wished Snape had. What more was there to say?

Harry stiffened again, even as a shiver raced up his spine, when a long-fingered hand came to rest in the small of his back. Snape reached past him to the coffee pot on the back of the stove. The Potions Master moved away again, without a word, taking the pot with him to the table. Another shiver raced up the Gryffindor's spine when the warm hand was gone. It was only then that he realized his fever hadn't quite broken, and the heat from the stove was doing nothing to temper the goosebumps on his arms. He wished desperately that he had stayed in bed, avoided this whole situation. He wished more that his secrets had stayed his own. What did Snape's knowing matter, if it changed nothing?

When the food was done, Harry turned with the pan and silently dished food onto the plate before the Potions Master. Snape accepted the meal just as silently, and when Harry had done, he stood with his plate, cutlery, and plain white mug, leaving the kitchen. Harry watched him go with a deep, burdened sadness in his chest. He'd been such a fool to think, even for the briefest moment, that anything would change. Snape, he suddenly knew, was only the beginning. There was still a war to fight, and battles to be won, within and without. He only wished, as he sat before his own meal, and the innocent coffee Snape had left him, that that beginning had held more promise. But prejudice was deeply ingrained, and he understood now that nothing he did would ever change that.

 _-Hogwarts-_

The following Saturday, Harry attended the first of what he was sure would be many detentions. He knocked defiantly on the wood grain that stood between him and the Potions classroom. When he was bade enter, he did so with only the lightest touch of trepidation. He doubted Snape was going to force the issue, but there was always that chance. Harry walked to the front of the room and stood obediently before the teacher's desk, his heart thundering against his ribcage. Snape took his usual long, breathless moment to acknowledge him.

"Are you prepared to answer the question, Potter?" The Potions Master asked without looking up. "I have decided I am willing to accept an oral report, assuming the answer sufficiently explains your reluctance."

"I will not," Harry said defiantly, squaring his shoulders.

Snape looked up. "Will you at least tell me why?"

Harry looked over the man's head, willfully ignoring that burning onyx gaze. "It's no one's business but my own."

"I see," Snape said. Harry could _hear_ the smirk in his voice. "Then, I will assume you have come to face the consequences of your poor decision. You know what I require."

Harry gave a stiff nod, and turned to the corner where there were but a few cauldrons. He turned back uncertainly.

"I did not have sufficient time to dirty up enough cauldrons," Snape said, his eyes back upon his grading. "When you have finished with them, you will fulfill the rest of your detention doing homework. Based on your grades, I suspect forcing you to study may be an even crueler punishment than cleaning cauldrons has ever been."

Harry scowled, but turned back to the corner. He forced himself to swallow the hot, familiar rage only Snape seemed capable of bringing about. Years of verbal back-and-forth, Harry still couldn't understand how the Potions Master managed to get under his skin like no one else could. He smothered a laugh, as he wondered stupidly if that didn't have something to do with the damned potion that had landed him here.

The truth was, he knew why the potion had chosen Snape. He wasn't sure he felt real attraction, but he wasn't even sure he knew what real attraction felt like. He hadn't expected the result, but given a few hours to mull over the problem, he'd discovered that he also wasn't entirely surprised by it. There had always been an odd _something_ between the two of them, since the day they're eyes had first met across the Great Hall. Loathing was the simple answer, but Harry had known even then that it ran deeper. A history, a lifetime, between them, leading up to that first glance of sharp black and wondering green. Almost as if everything leading up to that moment, and every moment that had followed, had been preordained. They had changed the definition of that relationship this past summer, but the nerves and sinew connecting them was merely strengthened. This, however. Harry feared that, as unsurprised as he was about the day's discovery, Snape finding out would sever that connection forever. What's more, he may not know if he even _could_ love the man, but he did know that, assuming that possibility, Snape would never, in a thousand lifetimes, feel the same. And it wasn't loathing. It was so much worse than that, in fact. Harry had found out this summer, as their dynamic had shifted slowly, but suddenly, that Snape would _always_ love another…

- _Summer-_

Harry rubbed the back of his head, sighing roughly as Ginny left the library at Grimmauld. She was smiling and crying, but he didn't know how to feel. He was glad, in a way, because he'd wanted this as well. Problem was: she hadn't even considered trying to make it work, and that's all he'd been able to think about for months. So, he was glad, but he wasn't _happy_. He'd almost call it heartbreak, save that it had more to do with his faith than his heart.

"Trouble in paradise?"

Harry jumped, rounding on the man coming into the room. He forced a smile.

"Thought you'd be gone now, since you can?" He replied, ignoring the question.

Snape looked up from his book. He frowned deeply and closed the book on his finger, holding it at his waist as he looked Harry up and down.

"Postponed on account of rain," He said idly, evading Harry's question in turn. "Are you alright, Potter?"

"Fantastic," Harry told him, a little too quick, and a little too loud. He cleared his throat as Snape's eyebrow rose in doubt. "Ginny and me… we've decided it won't work, too different… and she can't bear to spend the rest of her life with me."

Snape looked down at his book, glancing at Harry through his dangling blue-black hair. "Potter, _are you alright_?"

Harry sighed, before scowling. "No, I'm _not_. She just… she didn't even _think_ on it, she just woke up beside me this morning and decided she didn't want to do that for the rest of her life! How the hell am I supposed to feel? I've been fighting that feeling, that terrified wondering, since our first date!"

Snape cleared his throat. "Much as I hate to contradict you," He said with a smirk. Harry couldn't stop a chuckle. "Have you considered that _your doubt_ is why she reached her decision to begin with?"

Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Women are amazing creatures, Mister Potter. They have an intuition undefinable by magic _or_ science. It is why they were the most commonly accused of witchcraft, with only a smattering of male victims throughout history. Miss Weasley has probably known for some time that you were, as you say, _wondering_." Snape explained. "She could sense it off you, like a pheromone. She likely ignored this for as long as you've felt it, however when a woman's mind is made up, it is done so quickly and without argument. She did wake up this morning and decide she couldn't remain with you, but she likely came to that decision because of your fears that she felt. She is protecting herself."

Harry collapsed into a chair, bowing his head. "You know a lot about women," He said uncomfortably.

He was to blame. How had he not seen that? How had Snape? He looked back up at the Potions Master, who stood exactly where he'd been, his head dipped again as he fidgeted with a page in his book. Harry frowned.

"You've been in love." It wasn't a question.

Snape gave a small nod. "I have. Once. I never stood a chance, however. It merely afforded me the opportunity to try understanding the female mind."

Harry stepped forward. There was too much sadness in the man's tone for a mere unrequited love. A bolt of lightning struck his brain. She was _dead_. Whoever it was, she was dead, and Harry, recalling the one memory he'd seen of Snape's, had some idea of who it might be.

"It was my mum."

Snape flinched. "Indeed."

"You still love her?" He asked, thinking of Ginny.

Harry expected Snape to leave or snark any moment. Instead, the man looked up with an easy smirk.

"Until recently, I believed so. The first is not the last, Mister Potter. Ginevra will move on, in time; as will you," Snape told him softly. He turned and left the room.

 _-Detention-_

Harry didn't believe that. Ginny had, indeed, moved on, but Harry still felt that tug, that nagging at his heart each time he smelled her perfume or caught her eye. He knew in a part of himself that he hated that he would always love her. He could not imagine forgetting her. So, no, he didn't believe for a second that Snape could _ever_ forsake Lily, especially not for the arrogant James-clone that was her off-spring.

Harry sighed and rubbed at his neck as he tried desperately to understand the mechanics of transforming a bird into a ball of yarn. He started when fingers touched his neck besides his own. He turned and stood, knocking his chair aside as he leaned back against the bench he'd been working at. Snape stepped into his personal space, eerily reminiscent of Wednesday's class. Harry swallowed thickly.

Snape continued forward, pressing lightly against his legs as he dipped his head closer to Harry's, one laying against the side of the Gryffindor's throat. Harry swallowed again as a calloused thumb rubbed gently over his Adam's apple.

"Professor?"

Snape's head dipped further and sighed hotly against the flesh of Harry's throat. Harry gasped. Black eyes rose to his once more, and Snape smirked knowingly. Harry realized their faces were drawing closer at an agonizing rate. He realized next that he wasn't entirely innocent of this.

"Who did you smell?" Snape murmured, glancing from Harry's eyes to his lips.

Harry tried and failed to swallow again, gasping lightly as his heart thundered in his ribcage, when Snape's eyes met his again. "M-Malfoy," He lied, feigning cool. "The elder one, actually."

Snape smirked. "Liar," He replied, deliberately diminishing the space between them.

Harry managed to swallow as he decided suddenly that he wanted this. "Right," He breathed. His hand flew up to burrow into that dark, creamy hair, like silk, pulling Snape completely against him as he leaned up on the balls of his feet. Soft, dry lips parted against his, drawing him further in. A strong hand pulled him against Snape's body firmly. Harry used his other hand in Snape's robes to give him some balance as he leaned further off the floor. The man's greater age and experience showed as he remained steadfast in the kiss, subtly refusing to take it further. Harry groaned frustratedly. All he _wanted_ , in this moment, was to take things further.

Snape pulled away. "Do you still love Miss Weasley?"

Harry felt dazed confusion. "Who?" Snape chuckled, and he cleared his throat. "I mean, uh, yeah, but… that's different from this. Worlds apart."

"So it is with Lily," Snape said gently. He placed a tender kiss on Harry's lips. "Love is not the same thing as being _in_ love."

"We're in love, are we?" Harry asked, real confusion coloring his brow.

Snape smirked. "I would like the opportunity to prove it to you."

Harry smiled mischievously. "How long would that take, do you think?"

Snape leaned closer again. "No more than a year, I should think."

"You're quite confident." Harry cleared his throat as his voice cracked.

Snape nodded, furrowing his brow as he lowered his head further. "Oh, indeed, Mister Potter."

Harry breathed deeply through his nose as Snape closed the distance again. He leaned into the slow, languid kiss before the Potions Master pulled away again, this time stepping back completely. Harry frowned.

"You should return to your dorm," Snape said gently.

Harry cleared his throat, remembering that he was still this man's student for another month. He turned and stuffed his things quickly into his bag. Without looking back, he made quickly for the door. How could he have been so stupid? Just for a moment, he'd thought Snape had had all of the answers. But the man wouldn't even do more than kiss him, and had dismissed him when he'd tired of that. He'd let himself believe, ever-so-briefly, that there was life after love, but he doubted anyone would call this love… or life.

"Mister Potter."

Harry froze with his hand on the door. How had he not known Snape was behind him?

A hand turned him around gently, and Snape placed another kiss on Harry's trembling lips.

"I shall see you again next Saturday, Mister Potter."

Harry scoffed. "What about cl- oh!" He chuckled nervously. "Y-yeah, definitely."

"Perhaps by then, you will have decided to admit defeat," Snape smirked.

Harry laughed. "Oh, now _that's_ confidence," He told them man jokingly. He pecked smirking lips. "I'll see you in class, Professor."

Snape growled playfully as Harry turned and opened the door to the classroom, slipping out before Snape could stop him. He hurried down the corridor, only slowing as he ascended the stairs of the dungeons. He reached the Atrium and turned sharply left, into a small alcove beneath yet more stairs. The Gryffindor leaned against the curved wall and resisted the urge to look around the corner. He'd only be wishing that Snape had followed, but that wasn't the game this time.

Harry pushed off the wall with a secret smile. He realized, as if a cloud had moved away from the sun, that he quite enjoyed playing these games with the Potions Master. Could, in fact, enjoy it for the rest of his life… without a doubt.

~ _Fini~_


End file.
